It was dark when Sam awoke, groggy and sore, sometime later. He tucked his face against the pillows, fully intending on drifting back to sleep, when he became aware of the sound of soft breathing. He slanted open his eyes to find Will asleep in the bed next to him. Sam stared at him for a long moment. The realization that he was in bed with a strange man—this strange man—was joined shortly thereafter by the memories of the previous day.
Hallucinations. A seizure in an unfamiliar place. Jazz talking about everything and nothing while Sam shivered in the bathtub.
It quashed whatever knee-jerk reaction Sam might otherwise have had.
Sam considered the man in front of him. Will was lying on his side, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, his face lax in sleep. They were close enough that their legs were tangled together. Sam waited for the awkwardness or discomfort that otherwise would have reared its head upon finding himself in bed with a stranger, but nothing came.
Instead, Sam felt… oddly content.
He considered that, too. Lennox and Jazz had been the focal point of the fear and uncertainty hounding Sam for the last five days. Still, something profound had changed about Sam's worldview between the moment Lennox had knocked on his front door, royally fucking up his life in the process, and when he had staggered into Sam's motel room last night.
I saw it too, Will had said.
Sam's eyes roved over the older man's face. He looked content now. Peaceful. A far cry from the haggard look that had haunted him the night before.
"Go back to sleep, Sam." Jazz murmured.
Sam glanced over his shoulder to find Jazz reclining in the same armchair that he had been sitting in earlier. The holoform was barely visible in the dark. Sam could make out the curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head, but little else. He was like a shadow given form.
Sam stared at him for a moment longer, before rolling back over and tucking his face against the pillow. The sheets were cool against his skin. He laid there for a few minutes, drifting in that hazy space between fully awake and fully asleep, before he slanted open his eyes again. Lennox was still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. Sam's eyes grew heavier as he watched him, until finally, he couldn't resist the pull of sleep any longer.
The rattle of the door against the frame jerked Sam awake. He lifted his head, peering blearily around the room. Lennox and Jazz were sitting at the small table near the window. The older man was wearing nothing but his boxers and a tee-shirt as he nursed a steaming coffee mug. The drapes had been drawn aside some time while Sam slept. The sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains had a warm, late-morning quality about it.
"Make room, Lennox." Someone instructed, briskly.
The voice was vaguely familiar. Sam glanced over his shoulder to find Sunstreaker's holoform carrying an assortment of plastic bags in one hand and a drink tray in the other. Lennox picked up his coffee mug, before leaning aside so Sunstreaker could place the bags on the table. Sunstreaker handed the drink tray to Lennox next, who groaned in appreciation, before he began tearing open the bags. It was only after the holoform began stacking take-out containers on the table that Sam caught a whiff of something mouth-watering.
"What is that?" He found himself asking.
Sunstreaker glanced over his shoulder with a wry smile. "It's breakfast. Are you getting up anytime this century?"
There was something about the holoform's easy-going attitude that needled Sam. The last time the two of them had been in a room together was at Maccadam's, and Sam wasn't likely to forget that altercation anytime soon.
"If I say no, are you gonna get handsy again?" He shot right back.
Sam's peevishness was met with a sharp bark of laughter from Lennox. Sunstreaker turned, fixing him with an unimpressed look, which caused the older man to hide his smile behind his coffee mug. Jazz was far less reserved about letting his amusement known. He grinned at the other holoform, earning a derisive snort in return, before he gave Sam a wry smile.
"Wrong twin, kid." He said.
Sam frowned. "...What?"
The blond holoform heaved a put-upon sigh, before giving Sam a pointed look. "Your beef is with my brother, not me. My name's Sideswipe. Nice to meet you."
Sam's frown deepened in confusion. "Your brother? But you look… y'know..." He gestured vaguely at the holoform standing in front of him, "Identical."
"We're not identical." Sideswipe sneered, clearly offended, "We're twins. Ever heard the term?"
"Knock it off, Sideswipe." Lennox admonished, setting his coffee mug on the table.
"He started it." Sideswipe sniffed in return.
"And I'm ending it." Lennox warned. "He doesn't know any better."
Sideswipe tossed his head with an audible scoff, before disappearing into thin air. Sam's eyebrows climbed all the way to his hairline. He had only seen a holoform materialize once before, at the diner in Valdosta, but it was no less jarring in reverse.
"Sorry about that." Lennox grumbled, reaching out to grab one of the take-out containers, "The twins can be a lot to handle."
Sam hesitated for a moment, before venturing, "What did you mean 'I don't know any better'?"
Jazz and Lennox looked at him in unison, before Jazz offered up a wry smile. "Don't sweat it, kid. The PC term is split-spark twins. Identical don't always have a positive connotation on Cybertron."
Sam frowned faintly. "But how do you have twins in the first place?"
Jazz's smile curled a little wider. "Mitosis works the same for us as it does for you. Whenever a spark splits during the on-lining process, then another frame is built for the twin. It's pretty rare, but it happens—just like with humans."
Sam was briefly flummoxed by the notion of an asexual mechanical species having identical twins, but then Jazz was pushing to his feet and stepping away from the table.
"Come on, kid." He said, nodding towards the seat he just vacated, "Food's gettin' cold."
Sam briefly eyed the assortment of Styrofoam containers, but the smell of bacon and eggs and something sweet soon had him climbing out of bed. Jazz stepped aside as Sam approached, before moving to sit in the armchair he had occupied last night. Sam barely noticed—his attention was focused on the cornucopia laid out in front of him. There was scrambled eggs, shredded potato hash browns, crispy bacon, sausage links, flapjacks, oatmeal, and—Sam leaned forward to get a better look—biscuits and gravy.
All at once, Sam realized that he was ravenous.
He picked up a plate, piling it high with a little bit of everything, before he sat down and started eating. He couldn't prevent his moan of pleasure at the first bite. The food had cooled since it had been boxed up, but it was still warm and fragrant. Sam tucked into his meal like a starved man falling on a banquet. It was only after he had cleaned half his plate that he glanced across the table to find Lennox doing the same.
The older man happened to glance up at the same time, and they locked eyes across the table.
"It's the episodes." Lennox explained, taking a drink of his coffee to wash down whatever he'd been eating, "They can make you tired and hungry for days afterwards."
Sam frowned down at his half-empty plate. "Why?"
Lennox shrugged. "Not sure. Ratchet has his theories."
Sam glanced up again, eager to glean any piece of information he could. "Ratchet?"
The older man nodded, before spearing another piece of sausage with his fork. "The Autobot's Chief Medical Officer. You'll meet him eventually. Don't let his demeanor fool you: he's a nice guy, beneath all that bluster."
"I'm gonna tell him you said that." Jazz grinned.
Lennox slanted the holoform a rueful half-smile. "I'd rather you didn't."
Sam's frown returned, furrowing his brow. "What are they?"
"Hm?" Lennox asked, glancing back across the table.
"Ratchet's theories." Sam repeated, leaning forward in his seat, "What are they?"
The older man visibly hesitated, before exchanging a sidelong glance with Jazz. The holoform returned his stare with a pointed, meaningful look on his face. Sam flushed hotly at the wordless exchange that was happening right in front of him.
"I think I'm owed some answers after last night." He bit out.
His outburst caused Lennox to glance over at him. The older man seemed to consider him for a long moment, eyes roving over his face, before he sighed softly in resignation.
"You know what, kid?" He asked, "I'd say you're probably right."
"Lennox." Jazz warned, mildly.
The older man twisted in his seat to glare at the holoform. "What?" He demanded, gesturing angrily towards Sam with one hand, "Who's he going to tell, Jazz? We dragged him half-way across the continent. The least we can do is answer his questions."
"That's not procedure." Jazz reminded him. There was something pointed about his tone—pointed and meaningful.
"Procedure?" Lennox retorted, "When's that ever stopped you before?"
Jazz stared at him a moment longer, before shrugging and leaning back in his chair. "It's your call."
Lennox snorted inelegantly, before turning to look at Sam. "What do you want to know?"
The older man's tone was mild and unaffected, but Sam recognized a loaded question when he heard one. He leaned forward in his seat, planting his forearms against the edge of the table, and looked Lennox directly in the eye.
"Everything." He replied with conviction.
Lennox nodded slowly as he reached out, grasping his coffee cup by the brim. He turned the mug in place several times as he seemed to consider his response. Eventually, he leaned back in his seat, before taking an unhurried drink of coffee.
"What do you know about why the Autobots are on Earth?" He asked.
Sam blinked, taken aback by the apparent non-sequitur.
"They're here for energon." He answered slowly.
Energon was a mineral that Earth had in abundance. It was virtually useless in its unrefined form. Its covalent bonds were too weak for blacksmithing or metalwork, and its luster was dull and unremarkable. The ore had no practical use until the Autobots arrived, and then energon extraction became a lucrative industry almost overnight.
"No, that's why they came." Lennox corrected, "It's not why they stayed."
Sam's frown deepened in confusion. "Well, why did they, then?"
Lennox took another drink of coffee, before setting his mug aside. Then he leaned forward, planting his forearms on the table and mirroring Sam's posture. "They stayed because of me."
Sam stared at him over the half-empty take-out containers and plastic detritus. He had no idea what the older man was suggesting. It was common knowledge that the Autobots had revealed their presence to the world on July 4, 1887, and many scholars speculated they had arrived decades earlier than that.
"Do you mean, like… figuratively?" Sam asked, unable to hide his confusion.
Lennox's lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. "No, I meant literally. I was born in 1839 just outside of Petersburg, Virginia." His voice turned wry as he added, "My carrier found me half-dead in the winter of 1886. I don't know which of us was more surprised."
Sam's mouth turned down at the corners. He didn't know whether Lennox was teasing him or bullshitting him, but he didn't appreciate it either way.
"You really expect me to believe you're over 180 years old?" He asked, dripping sarcasm.
Lennox shrugged indifferently. "Believe it or not, but it's the truth."
Sam crossed his arms over his chest as he considered Lennox's words. Eventually, he pinned the older man with a flat look. "You're pretty spry looking for a super-centenarian. So, did you fight with the Confederacy or the Union?"
Will looked momentarily surprised, before his face split with a dry smile. "I was a wood turner by trade, and an abolitionist by conviction. I was influenced a great deal by the writings of David Thoreau and Frederick Douglass and John Brown. I was even fortunate enough to witness William Lloyd Garrison give a speech in Boston." Will's face softened, though Sam couldn't tell whether it was with veneration or melancholy, "I was deeply moved by the passion of his convictions: 'Living or dying, defeated or victorious, be it ours to exclaim: no compromise with slavery, liberty for each, for all, forever.'"
Will trailed off for a long moment, staring at nothing, before he seemed to come back to himself. He took another drink of coffee, and then met Sam's eyes. "I enlisted with the Union army in February 1861 under General Cooke, another Virginia native. I joined the 2nd U.S. Cavalry shortly thereafter—we saw combat at the Peninsula Campaign and the Battles of Williamsburg and Gaines' Mill."
Sam found himself listening in a kind of morbid fascination. Will spoke with absolute conviction, despite the absolute absurdity of his claims.
"What happened then?" He asked, curious despite himself.
Will's mouth twisted in a grimace. "Half my regiment was struck down by typhoid. We were taken to a hospital camp outside of Arlington, while Cooke was repositioned to Hanover county where he commanded in the Seven Days Battle." The older man's voice took on a bitter edge as he continued: "He lost almost his entire regiment. I guess I was lucky."
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There was a thread of acrimony underscoring his words, and Sam wasn't quite sure how to respond.
"I'm sorry." He managed eventually.
Will took another drink of coffee, before shrugging his shoulders. "When I recovered, I was reassigned under the command of Major General John Buford. I was deployed in Virginia, Washington, and Pennsylvania for the remainder of the war. After General Lee surrendered, I went back to my old life."
Sam frowned faintly. Will struck him as a down-to-earth, no-nonsense kind of guy. He was either really committing to the bit or he was batshit insane—there was no middle ground. Some of his skepticism must have shown on his face, for Will offered him up a tired half-smile.
"I know how it sounds." He said by way of explanation.
"Alright, fine. I'll take the bait." Sam replied, "How's that possible? How can you be 180 years old?"
Will hesitated, obviously considering his words, before he asked: "How familiar are you with evolutionary biology?"
Sam's expression grew sardonic. "That's quite the segue."
Will's mouth thinned in a grimace. "I know that you were enrolled in neurobiology and anatomy at Harvard. Did your classes cover anything about it?"
Irritation stabbed at Sam. He had assumed the Autobots accessed his personal records, but it still stung to hear the confirmation.
"Not that it's any of your business, but no. They didn't." He bit out, "I was only in the program for one semester."
Will nodded, seemingly unaffected by the acid in his tone. "That's okay. Look, I'm no evolutionary biologist, so I'll explain what I can and Ratchet will fill in the details when we get to the island. Alright?"
Sam leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and fixing Lennox with an expectant look. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
Will scrubbed a hand down his face, before clasping his hands together on the table. Sam couldn't help but notice the way he was worrying the skin of his knuckles, which were red and chapped looking.
"I'm not sure where to start." Will admitted. "It's a long story."
Jazz chuckled, before waving his hand in a permissive sort of way. "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…"
Will's face split in a grudging smile. "Yeah, alright. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away there was this society. And in that society, there was a powerful artifact—so powerful, in fact, it was revered for the things it could do. But then war broke out, and the enemy conspired to use the artifact as a weapon. You need to understand: this artifact wasn't just revered or cherished, it was divine—holy—and to weaponize it would have been the worst sacrilege imaginable."
Will's expression grew grim as he continued, "The enemy was relentless. It wasn't long before the defenders realized there was nowhere on Cybertron it could be hidden—nowhere it would be safe—and so, running out of time and left with no other choice, they ejected the artifact into space. They figured it would be better to lose it forever, then have it desecrated by the enemy."
"Except it didn't stay lost." Jazz added, causing Sam to startle, "You see, ten million years ago, give or take, it crash-landed on this little blue planet in the farthest reaches of the galaxy—thousands of light years from home."
Sam felt something ominous skitter down his spine.
He half-turned to look at Jazz, who was leaning forward in his seat, arms resting on his legs, hands clasped loosely between his knees. The holoform's expression was reserved, but he was watching them too intently to be indifferent about their conversation.
"So, this holy artifact," Will continued, re-capturing Sam's attention, "It crash-landed on a new planet that was teeming with primitive life—new life, so unlike the robotic life that it knew—and so, it began doing things."
The ominous feeling was getting worse—digging deeper under Sam's skin. He swallowed, trying to work enough moisture back into his mouth to ask: "What kind of things?"
"Nothing malevolent." Jazz replied, "At least… not on purpose. The artifact, we call it the Allspark, and its primary function, its sole purpose, is creating new life."
Will took a deep drink of his coffee before continuing: "And so, the Allspark did the only thing it knew how to do. It made. It changed. It happened slowly, over millions and millions of years, a single generation at a time." Will set down his coffee cup, before leaning forward to look Sam in the eye, "And eventually… it made us. People."
Sam stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When nothing came, his face screwed up in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind?"
"C'mon, kid. Didn't you ever wonder why we look like you?" Jazz asked, voice oddly gentle, "Cybertron and Earth, humans and mechanoids, separated by thousands of light years, and yet somehow, we're so similar. Bipedal. Two arms, two legs. Higher consciousness, moral conscience. I mean, Primus kid, we even have the same taste in art and music and humor. Evolution? Creation? Turns out it's all the same thing, at the end of the day. The Allspark had a blueprint, one it knew well, and it replicated." Jazz leaned forward in his seat, looking as serious as Sam had ever seen him, "And that's why we're still on Earth. That's why our Prime feels responsible for your people. Because you're us, just… organic instead of metal."
Sam's heart was beating very hard inside his chest. He glanced between Jazz and Lennox, only to find both men staring at him closely—watching him, scrutinizing his reaction. His throat bobbed as he tried desperately to make sense of everything he'd been told, but there was only one question on the forefront of his mind.
"Why me?" He asked quietly, "If we're all the same, then why single me out?"
Jazz's mouth settled into a half-hearted smile. "Well, that's the thing, kid. You're not all the same. Our scientists figure the Allspark experimented with different species at first, but around nine million years ago, it latched onto Australopithecus. Makes sense, I guess—bipedal apes were the closest thing to Cybertronians on the planet. After that, most of its meddling occurred within your evolutionary tree. It altered your genetic material, a little at the time, until your species resembled that of modern Cybertronians, but there were… side effects. We don't know whether they were intentional or not."
Sam knew his face must be snow white as he asked, uncertainly, "What kind of side effects?"
"We're still working that out." Jazz admitted, "But most of humanity, say seven billion of 'em, are perfectly ordinary. Normal. Sure, there's evidence of the Allspark's interference in their genetic code, but otherwise, they're unremarkable."
"And the others?" Sam asked.
"The others." Jazz hummed, "Well, around six percent of the population have noticeable effects. They're a little smarter, a little sturdier. Another one percent even more so—they're the gifted types: your van Gogh's and Da Vinci's and Ptolemy's and the like."
Sam licked his lips. "And me?"
Jazz's expression softened with compassion. "You're another level of special entirely. It was a Primus-damned miracle when we found Will, and every cassette after him."
Despite the enormity of Jazz's revelation, Sam latched onto the unfamiliar phrasing. "...Cassette?"
Jazz's lips twitched up in amusement, but it was Lennox who answered him.
"It's a term Miko came up with in the 80s." He explained, "It's a play on words. Her carrier's name is Blaster, like ghettoblaster. It kind of stuck."
Sam's eyes dropped to the table. It was too much to take in all at once. He picked up his fork, poking at the remains of his breakfast. Eventually, and with much trepidation, he asked, "And what's it mean? Being a cassette?"
Will opened his mouth to reply, but Jazz was faster.
"We'll tell you whatever you wanna know, kid." Jazz promised, before nodding towards the table, "But why don't you finish your breakfast first? We need to get back on the road. My conjunx has been tailgating my aft ever since you woke up—our security director even more so."
Sam hesitated, torn between his panging hunger and his need for answers. Will seemed to understand his quandary, for he smiled encouragingly across the table. "Come on, let's finish up. I'll join you and Jazz this morning. We can talk more on the road."
Sam glanced up in surprise. "Yeah?"
WIll's smile deepened, causing the skin around his eyes to wrinkle. "Yeah, Sam."
To demonstrate his point, Lennox picked up his fork and tucked into his meal. Sam watched him for a moment, before following suit. Lennox finished eating first. The older man took a long drink of coffee, before he excused himself and disappeared into the adjoining room. Sam didn't even glance up as he left. He focused on his plate until the rest of his breakfast was gone, and then he grabbed his book bag and made his way into the bathroom. His eyes lingered on the bathtub as he shut the door, but with a concerted effort, he tore his gaze away and went about the process of getting ready.
Sam stepped out of the bathroom ten minutes later to find that the motel room had been cleaned in his absence. The take-away containers, plastic cutlery, and plastic bags had been tossed into the bin, and the random items strewn around the room had been picked up and packed away. Jazz was waiting for him by the front door.
"You ready?" He asked.
Sam shrugged, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Yeah, I guess."
The holoform nodded, before turning and opening the door. Sam squinted in the sudden, bright sunshine as he stepped outside to find the convoy was already waiting in rank and file. Sam made his way over to the silver coupe, which was idling in its position half-way down the column. The passenger door opened on his approach. He climbed into the seat, before tucking his backpack on the floor between his feet. He was just buckling his seatbelt when the other door popped open, and Lennox slid into the driver's seat.
The older man flashed him an easy smile as he pulled the door shut behind him. "All set?"
Sam nodded as he adjusted the seatbelt to rest more comfortably against his shoulder. Lennox just grinned at him, before grasping the steering wheel in one hand and the gear stick in the other. Sam watched in astonishment as the older man shifted the vehicle – Jazz – into drive, before following behind the Camaro as it started towards the road.
"What?" Lennox grinned, clearly enjoying his surprise, "Never seen a man drive a coupe before?"
Sam's face twisted in exasperation. "Not a sentient one, no."
Lennox laughed lightly. "What can I say? This whole thing has its perks."
Sam watched him for a moment longer, before glancing surreptitiously at the dashboard. He wasn't sure whether the Autobot could still hear him in vehicle mode, but it seemed likely.
"Doesn't it… you know, bother him?" Sam asked in a low voice.
"Nah, kid. Lennox is a soft touch." Jazz replied, his voice emanating from the speakers.
Sam startled in surprise, before flushing hotly in embarrassment. Lennox laughed good-naturedly at his reaction, before flicking the turn signal as they approached the road.
"Safety first, William." Jazz drawled.
Sam's eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline as the seatbelt slithered across the older man's torso, Lennox lifting his arm to make room, before it slid into the buckle with an audible click. Ahead of them, the yellow Camaro was pulling onto the road. Lennox slowed down long enough to check for traffic, before following behind him. The sun was sitting relatively high in the sky, and a glance at the dashboard confirmed it was almost ten o'clock in the morning.
"I can't believe we slept so long." Sam murmured.
Lennox rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Like I said: the fits can hit hard. Not always—but sometimes. I once slept for twenty-six hours, and when I woke-up, I ate everything I could get my hands on."
A frown played at the corners of Sam's mouth as he listened. "I've never had an episode like last night. I've had some pretty vivid dreams and a few seizures, but nothing like… that."
Will made a considerate sound as he slowed to a stop for a red light. "The transition is different for everyone. I had night terrors and auditory hallucinations for over a decade before they found me. Raphael never had either."
"Raphael?" Sam asked, glancing sidelong at the older man.
"Another cassette." Lennox answered, letting off the brake as the light turned green, "He's the youngest of us. Well, he was before you. We found him in 2013 outside of Flagstaff, Arizona." Will's mouth curved upwards in a smile, "Well, I say we found him, but really, he found us. He cracked one of our honey-pots on the dark-web. Afterwards, he wrote Prime a letter politely asking him to explain, at his convenience, why Raf was able to read Cybertronian logograms. He was packed and waiting by the time we showed up at his place."
Sam rested an elbow against the door, before propping his head against his hand. "Were all the other cassettes like that?"
"Like what?" Will asked.
Sam was quiet for a moment before he answered. "...Consenting."
Will's fingers curled and uncurled around the steering wheel. "Most of them were, yeah."
"How many's most?" He asked.
The older man glanced over at him—just a flick of his eyes, before looking back at the road. The non-answer told Sam everything he needed to know.
"I realize this probably doesn't help, but I am sorry, Sam." Will said, roughly. "I know it's not what you imagined for yourself."
"No." Sam agreed, staring through the windshield at the flat, empty expanse of rural Nebraska that stretched in every direction, "It's not."
Will cleared his throat, but said nothing in his defense. The convoy continued down the rural route for another ten minutes, before taking the on-ramp to the highway. Well, it was technically a highway, Sam supposed, but it was really just two strips of cracked and uneven pavement separated by a thin grass median. He watched the barren countryside pass by without much interest as he mulled over all he had learned that morning.
Eventually, for lack of anything better to do, he found himself asking: "How many other cassettes are there?"
"There's six of us." Lennox replied, and Sam could hear the undercurrent of surprise in his voice—evidentially, the older man hadn't been expecting the question, "I was the first. Maggie was the second. You might have heard of her? Margaret Madsen?"
Sam snorted softly. Margaret Madsen was one of Prime's special liaisons. She often traveled to Washington and Geneva to represent him on political matters as the Autobot leader rarely left Diego Garcia. She wasn't as forward-facing as David Carter, Prime's Chief Operating Officer, but she was still relatively well known.
"Yeah, I've heard about her." Sam replied dryly. "She's a cassette? I never would have guessed." Something suddenly occurred to him, and Sam turned to look at Lennox. "So why's she allowed off the island? And why are you, for that matter?"
"It's complicated." Lennox returned evenly. "I told you at the safehouse in Florida that we can help with your symptoms. The seizures, the paranoia, the nightmares. It can be a difficult, dangerous transition, which is why we're relocating you to the island. We have specialists who can help you through it."
"What kind of specialists?" Sam asked, suspiciously.
"Well, there's Ratchet and his medical team, of course. They'll monitor your physical well-being. The seizures don't often cause any lasting side effects, but there's always a risk. He will prescribe any medication necessary to combat the worst of the symptoms." The Camaro in front of them changed lanes to get around a slow moving pick-up truck, and Lennox checked his mirrors before smoothly following behind him. "And then there's Blaster. He's the Autobot's carrier, so he'll be working closely with you too."
Sam had heard that term once already that morning, but he had no idea what it meant.
"What's a carrier?" He asked.
Will blew out a long, slow breath. "That's a difficult question."
Sam turned to frown at him. "So, give me the difficult answer."
The older man made a considerate sound in the back of his throat, before drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.
"A carrier is a specific type of frame-class." Will began eventually, "They were chroniclers in the years before the war—tasked with preserving all of Cybertron's history and culture and intellectual achievements. They worked most closely with their cassettes: much smaller frame-types that sought out and collected information on their behalf."
Sam's frown deepened as he listened. "So, this isn't just us? Why haven't I ever heard of a cassette before?"
"Different reasons." Lennox replied with a shrug, "We keep information about cassettes as need-to-know as possible. You won't find anything on the Internet or the dark-web for good reason."
"But why?" Sam asked in mounting frustration, "Is it because of the Allspark?"
"Yes and no." Lennox answered, "I mean, Prime isn't keen to have the world's population know about the Allspark's effects on our genetic code, obviously, but that's not it. Cassettes are considered precious in Cybertronian society—more so now, because of the war."
"Wait, what war?" Sam asked, turning in his seat to look at the older man, "I thought that was millions of years ago."
Lennox grimaced deeply. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the war never really stopped. New players, same game, but this time our guys are losing ground. It's why Prime sent scouting parties into neural space in the first place. They needed the resources."
Sam's breath stuttered in his chest. The knowledge that there was an intergalactic war raging in deep space, older than human civilization, left him feeling, at once, both very small and very trapped.
"Why haven't you guys told anyone?" He managed, aghast, "What's to stop your war from coming to our doorstep?"
"You're assuming we didn't." Lennox returned evenly. "The world's leaders know. Why do you think they've tolerated the Autobot's presence on Earth for so long? It's because the alternative is much, much worse—and they know it. Prime is willing to trade and barter and assist. The enemy would raze the planet to ruins for energon without feeling a lick of remorse."
The grim tone in the older man's tone caused Sam's stomach to tighten with existential dread. The situation had to be much more dire than Sam realized if the world's leaders were mutually committed to keeping it under wraps.
"I feel sick." Sam admitted, weakly.
Lennox glanced over at him in concern. "Do you need me to pull over?"
Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, before roughly shaking his head in reply. Lennox drove in silence for the next half-hour, presumably letting Sam come to terms with what he'd been told. It was no small task. Sam's mind was whirling with the ramifications of all he had learned. If the Autobots were the only thing standing between Earth and intergalactic war, then that would certainly explain why they were able to operate with impunity across international borders. It would also explain why the world's governments usually kowtowed to Prime's demands even when it acted against their own best interests.
"How're you doing over there, Sam?" Lennox asked eventually.
"I've been better." He managed.
Will's mouth thinned in a grimace. "Believe me: I get it."
Sam chewed on his thumbnail in silence for the next few miles. Eventually, he dropped his hand and glanced over at the man sitting beside him.
"So, what does a carrier frame-type do, exactly?" He rasped.
Lennox stared straight ahead as he seemed to consider the question. When he finally spoke, he was obviously choosing his words with care. "It's hard to explain, but think of a carrier as… an anchor in a storm. Their proximity will reduce most of your negative symptoms, and they can help to mitigate the rest.
Sam immediately cottoned on to his vague phrasing. "Help how?"
"Well, it depends." Lennox replied, "Raphael didn't need much from Blaster. He was barely symptomatic when we found him. Miko was similar. The rest of us, though, needed more intervention—our condition was more advanced, our symptoms more severe."
"How severe?" Sam asked.
"Well, it was different for all of us." Will hedged, "I told you that I had auditory hallucinations and nightmares, but there were other side effects too. The paranoia was the worst—I couldn't be around people at all. I was in real bad shape when they found me." Will cleared his throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable, "Look, all you need to know is that Blaster is a good carrier. A great one. He helped Miko and Charlie and Raf—he can help you, too. If you let him."
"But how?" Sam asked, flustered and frustrated in equal measure, "What exactly will he do?"
"I can't explain it." Lennox replied, before holding up a hand to forestall Sam's inevitable protest, "Not because it's classified, but because I can't put into words. The relationship between a carrier and a cassette… It's unique. Personal."
They drove in mutual silence for the better part of twenty minutes—Will, seemingly deep in thought, Sam, doing his best to compartmentalize. The convoy passed a small town a short while later. Sam turned, watching the buildings flash by through the trees. The sight of a McDonald's and a Target left him feeling homesick. He knew it wasn't something he was likely to see again anytime soon.
Eventually, Sam turned his head to look at Will. After a few moments, the older man turned and caught his gaze.
"So." Sam said dully, "Does Blaster let you off the leash often?"
Will's entire face lit up with a smile, before he threw back his head and laughed.
"Oh, Blaster's not my carrier. Maggie and I are partnered with someone else. He's a warframe, though, so he's usually off-planet. I haven't seen him in a few months."
Sam sat up a little straighter in his seat. "A war-frame? I thought the Autobots were all civilian-builds."
"They are." Will agreed, before smoothly following the convoy into the far right lane. "Well, I mean, most of them. The Primesguard and SpecOps aren't civilian-builds, but they aren't considered war-frames either."
Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "So… you're allowed to leave the island because your carrier's off-planet?"
Will turned, gave him a tilted half-smile. "I'm an old man, Sam. I've been stable for a long, long time. Maggie and I can leave the island because we aren't in danger of a relapse."
The answer made Sam's heart skip a beat. He carefully arranged his features into an unassuming mask, before asking, neutrally: "Will I be able to leave, too? Eventually?"
Will's thumbs drummed against the Autobot symbol set on the airbag module. "It's possible."
The answer could have been a lie or an equivocation, but it made Sam's heart leap all the same to hear it. They drove another half-dozen miles in silence, before Sam glanced over at the driver's seat again.
"So, what's his name then?" Sam asked, "Your carrier."
Something about Lennox's expression shifted—growing wry, almost amused—as though he was enjoying an inside joke.
"Designation: Soundwave."